His crafty plans he will devise,
And tell the most atrocious lies.
What will a drunkard do for ale?
Dark and dismal grows my tale;
Sell his bedstead and his bed,
Nor leave a place to lay his head.
Sell his blankets and his sheets,
Lie in barns or walk the streets,
His thirsty soul will cry for more,
He’s starved and miserably poor.